


Blue Tulips and Peonies

by tyomawrites



Series: Blinder Slice of Life [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, mentions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyomawrites/pseuds/tyomawrites
Summary: The thing is about Arthur’s eyes, is that they’re such a lighter shade from Tommy’s. While Tommy’s are light blue like ice, Arthur’s are so much more softer, rarely sharp or calculative. Arthur’s eyes are sky blue, like blue tulips, or blue peonies. They’re beautiful and expressive in all the ways that count. Henry loves how they look, ever since Somme, ever since he’d met Arthur and was piqued by his curiosity





	1. Chapter 1

The thing is about Arthur’s eyes, is that they’re such a lighter shade from Tommy’s. While Tommy’s are light blue like ice, Arthur’s are so much more softer, rarely sharp or calculative. Arthur’s eyes are sky blue, like blue tulips, or blue peonies. They’re beautiful and expressive in all the ways that count. Henry loves how they look, ever since Somme, ever since he’d met Arthur and was piqued by his curiosity

Henry noticed, all the way back in France, of how pretty Arthur’s eyes were. Sure he couldn’t discount Tommy’s and their brightness, but the pale expanse of Arthur’s eyes were beautiful in comparison. Arthur’s eyes in the starlight, with firelight catching only the corners, it made the blue look dark and mesmerizing. 

“How about I keep my money, and you shove a licence up your arsecrack?” Jobs be damned, no matter what the situation is, now that he’s followed Arthur down to the illegal boxing rings, Henry could still wax poetry about Arthur’s eyes for hours, days, weeks, months instead of paying attention to the bastards around him. Henry can see the expanse of the universe in Arthur’s eyes, when they shine brightly or when he crinkles the corners of his eyes when he frowns or he smiles. 

“You don’t want to speak to me like that.” Arthur rumbles with his eyes narrowed like a wolfs. The ringmaster scowls. Arthur bristles, ready for a fight. 

“And who the bloody hell do you think you are?” Henry snorts, mostly to himself as Arthur’s eyes darken, ready to fight back. 

“My name, is Arthur Shelby.” The words that should be distinctly Arthur’s do not in fact come from his mouth. Instead they come from behind the three of them. John and Arthur spin around first, quick and Arthur has apprehension on his face. 

“Dad?” Arthur sounds like a child when he speaks. His voice comes out soft spoken from his throat. Henry stiffens, finally turning around to take a look at who the Shelby father is.

If Arthur’s eyes are the sky, and Henry loves every bit about them, it’s the exact reason why, when he turns around to see Arthur Shelby Senior, Henry hates him on sight. He knows that Arthur’s eyes are not his father's. Arthur Shelby Senior has ice cold eyes, unlike the perceptive glint in Tommy’s, they’re calculative and cruel. 

“Jesus.” Arthur Senior breathes and stares down at Henry’s Arthur, his Arthur. Henry crosses his arms over his shoulders instinctively and defensively. He already has a bad feeling about Arthur Senior and the way his Arthur has suddenly gone vulnerable doesn’t fill him with any confidence.

Eventually, Henry has to dismiss himself from the rings. He hates to leave Arthur, but John and Arthur are discussing taking Arthur Senior back to the Shelby house and Henry doesn’t want to get in the middle of the Shelby brothers, especially when it’s not his place.

 

* * *

 

Arthur sends a message to the Garrison for Henry to meet him back at the ring, when he does, he finds Arthur Senior with him, and Finn, the latter being a surprise. Finn grins up at him, happy to see him. He ruffles Finn’s hair before readjusting the youngest Shelby’s hat.

“The boy needs a hiding, if you ask me.” Henry catches Arthur Senior whispering over to Arthur. Arthur sighs almost nonchalantly before answering with a soft voice.

“Yeah, well, Aunt Polly’s close to giving him one.” Arthur’s shoulders shrug. Henry sighs, mostly to himself as he follows them while eavesdropping unashamedly on the conversation. 

“John and Ada too it seams.” Arthur Senior comments.

“John moans on bloody principle, but if you saw his missus.” Arthur laughs, albeit a bit half-heartedly as he glances over at Henry with soft eyes.

“You have a girl yourself, son?” At Arthur’s hesitance to answer the question, Arthur Senior sighs and pulls the chair out for himself to sit down. “P’raps when it suits Tommy, eh?”

Henry bristles as he pulls his own chair out, taking the only free seat, opposite Arthur Senior. He sits, pours himself a drip and immediately crosses an arm over his chest as he sips it and listens to Arthur Senior talk.

“Then the salvation of Jesus Christ spread his light over me, and, as a pilgrim, I come to visit the New World America, where I beheld the future.” Arthur Senior drones on. Henry drifts in and out of the conversation, half-heartedly listening as he logs Arthur’s reactions. 

He doesn’t know much about the patriarch of the Shelby family. Neither Tommy or Arthur have told him much. All he’d gotten from Tommy were a few comments about getting knocked about as children and that Arthur adored the man he was named after. It was concerning really, how Arthur’s invulnerability almost disappeared when he was face to face with his father. It fills Henry with worry.

“Casinos! Money factories, son. Look, I've been studying the competition, their schemes, their systems. Look at that Show me.” Henry can’t help but lean over and glance at the flyer in Arthur’s hand. It’s surprisingly well made, not what he expected from it. 

“It's all there. There's a fortune to be made here. I'm an old man, and my heart's a battered vessel. But within,” Henry snorts and narrows his eyes when Arthur Senior darts his head up to look at him. “There still beats the fluttering pulse of a dream The Shelby Casino and Hotel Gents and dames will come flocking from all corners - New York, Chicago, Boston - to The Shelby, where I can stand proudly with my dear children by my side.” 

Arthur looks so excited by the prospect that Henry doesn’t want to speak up and point out that it sounds like a terrible fucking idea. “And the women there! Like fresh peaches. Thou could have a dozen.” 

“We'd all of us be kings! How much, how much to get started?” Arthur’s eagerness makes him smile, even in the calculative face of Arthur Senior. The older Shelby scans Henry for a moment for a read, but when Henry returns his curious eyes with a blank stare, the man’s expression turns gruff.

“The oak needs but an acorn.” Arthur Senior replies instead of saying what Henry thinks he wants to say.

“Let's do it. Let's do it. Let's bloody do it.” Arthur repeats eagerly with a hand around his glass. Finn looks excited too, although he’s a lot more apprehensive than Arthur is. Henry chalks it down to not actually having had much exposure to Shelby Senior before. 

“It would make my heart beam but I don't want to cause any discord between the brothers. So, please, why don't you talk to Tommy first?” 

“I'm sick of taking orders from him.” Henry feels like be bristles a lot more than it’s needed. Sure he’s Arthur’s first and foremost, but Tommy is his friend and there is a reason Tommy thinks for all of them, Henry sees that easily. Just as he opens his mouth to protest, his Arthur speaks again.

“Tommy's not the only one in the family with a head for business, and Shelby money is Shelby money.” Henry takes a deep breath before resigning himself to stand by Arthur despite his decisions. Arthur grins at his father. Henry mirrors Arthur’s grin when the younger Shelby turns to meet his face. 

“I thank God for my wonderful sons. This is cause for a celebration! Yeah.”

“Slange.”

“Slange.” Henry repeats, half-hearted but he nudges Arthur with a soft smile. Arthur smiles back at him, and it’s so soft and vulnerable that Henry’s heart clenches. 

“On your feet, soldier! On your feet.” Arthur Senior disregards Henry’s scowl as he gestures to his son. Henry reaches out and grabs onto Arthur’s hand as he stands. Arthur’s eyes stare down at him, wide-eyed and expressive, the pale sky blue staring back at him. Arthur’s eyes plead with him while his mouth parts by a half inch, words still caught on his tongue.

Arthur Senior drags Arthur over to the rings, insistent despite his sons protests. Henry follows, worry already nipping at his gut as Arthur, although unwilling, climbs into the ring with his father. “Dad, I don't want to fight you, Dad.” Arthur mutters. Over the already cheering crowd, Henry thinks he’s the only one that catches Arthur’s muttering. 

“Come on, boy! I'm old enough to be thy father.” Arthur Senior jeers back towards him. Arthur hesitates, and while Arthur Senior doesn’t pull his punches, Arthur hardly looks like he wants to be in the ring.

“Hit him! Hit him!” The crowd cheers around them. Under his breath, Henry mutters the complete opposite. “ _ Get out, stop fighting, he’s not worth it Arthur.”  _

“That's it! Hit him!”

“On your feet.’

“Get up. All right! That's it! Is that all you've got, boy? Get up.” The string of words Arthur Senior strings out makes Henry rolls his eyes almost against his will. It’s impulsive and reckless, but Henry wants to climb into that ring and give a solid right hook directly across Arthur Shelby Senior’s face. Henry resists though, because Arthur Senior picks up his Arthur from the ground and starts to crow.

“This here is Arthur Shelby Junior! My son. I love him, and I'm proud of him, and he can fight any one of yous in here. You did good, son. You did good.” Arthur Senior repeats into the side of Arthur’s face. 

“I love you, Dad. I love you.” His Arthur says, unashamed and loudly. Henry’s heart clenches when he spots not an inch of emotion across Shelby’s senior’s face.

“Henry.” Arthur turns around to find him in the crowd once Arthur Senior lets go of him. Henry nods, stepping forward. “Dad this is Henry, he patched me and Tommy up in the war.” Arthur gives in lieu of explanation. Arthur Senior doesn’t bother with a hand to shake. He gives Henry a hard look, eyes him up and down like he’s sizing him up before he turns away and scoffs. Yes Henry hasn’t been very welcoming towards Arthur Senior, but the way Arthur’s face fall makes him want to punch the older man. 

Henry presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to stop him from retorting a string of rude phrases towards Arthur Senior. Arthur, his Arthur, gives him an apologetic look before he follows his father.

Henry fusses over Arthur’s face when they get far enough away from the ring. He grips on Arthur’s chin and wipes at Arthur’s blood with his pocket square because he forgot his handkerchief. Henry gets a look from Arthur Senior when he slaps Arthur halfheartedly on the arm for being careless with the fight, but he ignores it for the sake of wiping the bit of blood that spread underneath Arthur’s chin by tilting his head back. 

“Ye gotta be smarter than ye are Arthur.” Henry chastises softly, when he swipes at Arthur’s red tinged stubble with his pocket square. “Know you better than that.” 

“I’m fine.” Arthur rumbles, pulling his head away hesitantly. Henry frowns, pinching his fingers on the bridge of Arthur’s nose and feeling down the length of it.

“If you’d broken your nose I’d beat you bloody.” Henry threatens. Arthur only laughs, knowing the threat is empty. 

“Alright now if you two lads stop acting like  _ faggots _ .” Arthur Senior huffs with his hands crossed over his arms. Arthur flinches and ducks his head, pulling his chin from Henry’s fingers. Now Henry knows where Arthur gets his insecurities about their budding relationship from. Henry shifts from his seat next to Arthur’s thigh to glare up at Arthur’s father while swiping his tongue over his teeth.

Arthur stands almost instantly, knocking Henry’s chin with his knee as he does. He doesn’t even mutter a sorry back in Henry’s direction as he follows behind Arthur Senior like a puppy. Henry sighs and watches, pocketing his pocket square into his trousers and adjusting his tie. He takes a breath and sighs, before he walks in the opposite direction of Shelby Junior and Shelby Senior.   
  


* * *

 

Henry has met parents like Arthur Shelby Senior before. Tough parents, who box their kids around the ears and try to mold them into perfect images of themselves. Rough parents who prefer the literal hands on approach rather than talking like a normal human being. Parents who, even if they choose the option of talking have nothing but poison and barbs on their tongue. Arthur Shelby Senior is all of those parents combined with the devil himself.

When he was six, his neighbour had a father like Arthur Shelby Senior. He remembered how the boy look after his father would come home, terrified, lost, flinching at his own shadow.  Henry used to lean over the fence between their houses to talk to him. His name was Frank, but his mum called him Frankie. Frankie stopped coming out of the house by ten. Henry stopped seeing him by the time he was twelve. 

Since Henry normally spends most of his time with Arthur, the sudden reappearance of the Senior Shelby interferes with everything he does. Arthur follows his father around like a puppy, and Henry follows Arthur because there's a bad feeling in his gut that he can't shake. Tommy greeted him after Arthur brought Arthur Senior back to the Shelby house, after he waited out the row the brothers had down in the street. He heard their shouting from outside. Now he’s sitting at the Shelby dining table with Tommy and Polly, while nursing a glass of rum and his wounded pride.

Wounded pride that by all means should not be wounded because Henry doesn’t know if what him and Arthur are doing isn’t affected by Arthur Shelby Senior. Henry sighs to himself mostly, and when he looks up finally, he notices that Tommy and Polly aren’t at the table, their cups empty and their chairs tucked in.

Henry sleeps on the couch in the Shelby house, his shoes kicked off at the end of it, and his coat thrown over his shoulders to battle the cold. He wakes up to the weight of a blanket being draped over his shoulders haphazardly. A semi-drunk Arthur puts a finger on his lips when he opens his mouth to speak. Arthur shushes him out loud, before pulling another blanket around his shoulders. Arthur hesitates, before pointing towards the stairs with a soft smile. Henry drowsily nods and pulls the blanket around him before he leaves the couch and follows Arthur upstairs. If he can only fall asleep with an ear to Arthur chest, Arthur doesn't comment.

 

* * *

 

Henry gets stopped by the coppers on the way back to his flat to pick up a change of clothes. Inspector Campbell watches him with a sharp eye as he picks at the skin around his thumbnail. 

“So why’s a field medic from London, living down in Small Heath and associating with the Peaky Blinders.” The Inspector drawls with his thick accent as he nods towards the cap on Henry’s head. 

“Living with family sir.” Henry responds politely. He’s steps from his door, everything’ll be fucked if he gets into shite with the police now of all things. 

“Mother and father deceased, no living uncles and aunts, cousin in London. So what family are you staying with son?” The Inspector strides closer, until he’s only a step away.

“Family from the war, sir.” Henry’s eyes catch one of the officers moving. “Is there a reason I’m being stopped Inspector?” Really, he knows better, really. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. The Inspector nods to the officers and he’s being shoved into the wall and his face is dragged against the bricks. One of the officers plants his boot on his bad shoulder and twists his heel into the joint. It hurts, like fucking hell. He stifles a scream by biting into his bottom lip. He gets dragged up from the floor and a bag is thrown over his head. It smells like potatoes of all things, if anything, he should be offended that he’s being treated like a common fucking criminal.  _ He’s a step above that at least.  _ That, he keeps to himself to save himself from another beating. A sharp strike to his side has him going unconscious. 

He wakes up cuffed and strapped to a chair. His coat is abandoned on the floor ahead of him, like they’ve been using it to mop up the bloodstains he can see on the floor. He glances around, but the most he can see is crates with no identifiable logos. 

“Glad of you to join us.” The Inspector grins above him. 

“I can’t tell ye anything.” Henry tries to say, but it comes out slightly muffled. His cheek is swollen, he realizes that belatedly. He tries to catalogue his injuries, at least the ones he can see and feel while the Inspector drones on above him. As far as he’s concerned, it’s only what they’ve been doing to his arm, possible fracture fingers, the beginning trail of wire cutter marks across his forearm up to his bicep.

“I’ve been told that you’re the doctor on payroll for the Shelby’s. Henry Williams, thirty-five, field medic for four years, medically discharged.” The inspector lists. With each fact, a copper next to him bites into his skin with wire cutters. He chews on the inside of his cheek, panting heavily when the cuts move further up his arm towards his bad shoulder. 

“Served in France,  _ with Thomas and Arthur Shelby _ ,” The wire cutters snip dangerously close to his scar. He shakes, sweat drips down his brow. “Served in Gallipoli, with  _ Arthur Shelby _ .” The wire cutters press against the first scar from surgery, a long line that twists from his bicep up to his shoulder. 

“Possibly  _ sleeping with Arthur Shelby. _ ” The wire cutters open and clamp around scar tissue. They cut through with zero resistance. Henry screams, thrashing in the chair, tugging his wrists at the cuffs. The Inspector nods again with a mutter of, “faggots and cocksuckers”, the wire cutters press onto the actual bullet hole scars on his shoulder.

“I can’t tell you nothing, I don’t fucking know nothing I’m just the doctor.” He yells as the blades of the wire cutter begin to close. “I fucking swear!” The Inspector sighs. The wirecutters snap shut. His scream rattles off of the crates.

Henry clamps his mouth shut, breathing heavily while the Inspector only chuckles and smirks in front of him. He bites down on his tongue, chews on the inside of his cheeks until he bleeds and tastes blood and only blood. The inspector tries a few more times, until the man’s frustration is evident and he’s openly cursing Henry’s lack of information. 

They must be fed up with him. Henry pants through gritted teeth as they drag another sack over his head and release him from the chair. They dump him in the street in the middle of the night. It was night when he was taken, night when they let him go. He limps into his flat with a trail of blood that drips from his left pinkie finger onto the floor. 

He thinks about calling Tommy, or Arthur. He glances over to the bottle of whiskey he keeps for when Arthur comes and stays the night. He snatches it up with his right hand and sets it on the table before he rips himself free of his ruined vest and shirt. The ruined clothes crumple to the floor. 

Henry collapses onto his chair next to his desk. With his good hand, he reaches for a drawer and shuffles through it until he finds a needle and some thread. He grits his teeth as he stitches every single cut on his arm until he gets to his scars. If he sheds more than a few tears when he threads the needle through the flesh on his shoulder, and if he curses loudly and bites on his own lip to stifle his sobbing, well there’s no one there to see and hear them anyway.

He passes out for a few hours thinking of blue tulips and peonies that get stained with blood.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur comes by later that day, morning, Thursday morning, or is it afternoon, Henry doesn’t know. Arthur is loud and cheerful, talking about business and new prospects from the other side of the door and it wakes Henry up. Henry sits, slumped in his chair, stained with blood and whiskey. He pushes himself up from the chair when Arthur’s pounding on the door goes from excited to frantic and worried. 

“Arthur just calm down.” Henry groans as he yanks open the door with his right. Arthur goes quiet almost instantly. Arthur pushes into his flat and slams the door behind him. He’s growling lowly, his eyes scanning the flat before they drop onto the needle and thread, and the whiskey bottle still sitting on the table. 

“Hen, what the fuck?” Arthur grabs his right shoulder and works his hands across his arm and chest, fingers searching for injuries before he stops at Henry’s left shoulder.

“I’m fine.” 

“Horseshit Henry. Fucking Horseshit.” Arthur lashes out, hitting the surface of the table so hard that the whiskey bottle rattles. “Your arm.” 

“I need painkillers and  _ sleep _ Arthur.” Henry protests. “Been up all night.” Arthur tucks an arm under his armpit and turns them towards the bed. Arthur sits him down on the mattress before Arthur crouches between his knees with hands on the insides of his thighs. 

“Do you want me to stay?”

“If you want to.” Henry murmurs, still pining. He reaches out to touch Arthur’s face hesitantly, and settles when Arthur pushes his cheek flush into the palm of his hand. 

“Of course I’ll fookin’ stay.” Arthur’s accent thickens and he pulls himself up to his feet, before he manhandles Henry into laying down on top of the blankets. “You cold Hen?” 

Henry shakes his head, before glancing around the flat. “Don’t go.” He moves to sit up when Arthur moves back through the doorway to the lounge. Arthur is back to his side in a flash before the words finish leaving his mouth. Arthur stares down at him, his eyes are decidedly peony like today, Henry thinks as Arthur fusses over him. Henry sways, staring at Arthur's eyes.

"I love your eyes." Henry barely remembers muttering to Arthur as Arthur arranges him on the bed. Arthur smiles at him softly, disbelief in his eyes. Henry nods his head forward before he grips weakly onto Arthur's arm. "Pretty, like flowers."

 

* * *

 

Arthur is still there when he wakes up. It’s well into the evening, he notices as he hears and glances at the ticking clock. Arthur is breathing steadily at his back, but not deeply. “Hmm, you aight Hen?” Henry relaxes, turning over to blink blearily at Arthur.

“You stayed?” 

“Wot, did you expect me to fookin’ leave once you fell asleep?” Arthur retorts, indignant. At Henry’s wounded whimper, Arthur snaps his mouth shut and sighs, before reaching out to press Henry back to his chest. Henry goes boneless against Arthur when he presses a kiss to his hairline, brushing calloused fingers over his scars gently.

“Figured you’d be busy.” Henry admits softly, dropping his eyes to the callouses on Arthur’s fingers and knuckles. He brushes his own over Arthur’s fingertips, longingly and wistfully as he traces the vein on the side of Arthur’s pointed finger. “I didn’t feel too welcome around the house after meeting Shelby Senior.”

Arthur stiffens behind him. Henry closes his mouth, sitting forward until his back isn’t pressed to Arthur’s chest. He moves, so that he’s leaning against the wall instead of on Arthur’s chest, and he turns his head to look at Arthur. “You said before that ye fucking wanted me Arthur, that you wanted this? You’re not going to change your mind because your pa’s decided to drop in?” 

“Yes of course I did.  _ I do Hen _ . I’m not changing my mind.” 

“Alright.” Henry nods. “Alright. I’m yours Arthur, for as long as you’ll have me.”

 

* * *

 

He sits in the Garrison on his own on Friday in the morning, at a table in the corner where no one is willing to bother him with the cap sat low on his head. Arthur wasn’t there when he woke up, his side of the bed already cold, the pot of tea too, cold like it hadn’t even been warmed in the first place. He distracts himself by humming along to the barmaid, Grace. She started an Gaelic lullaby he knows half the words to, and when he starts to sing along instead of just humming along she looks surprised while her hands drop from her hips. He mouths the words he half knows and gives voice to them when Grace urges him on. He sings with Grace until it’s lunch time, until he runs out of songs he knows and his voice is nervous. He wipes his clammy fists on his coat and gives Grace one last smile before he settles back into his chair. 

“How’d you know those songs Henry?” John says from behind him, nudging his way out from the back room. John grins down at him, while he stands with a hand in his cap. 

“Ma was Irish, used to sing to me sometimes before I got older.” He says in lieu of explanation, scratching at the skin next to his nose. “Don’t know half the words anymore though, so can’t sing as well as I used to.” 

“It’s good. That you can sing.” John compliments as he leans on a chair. “Is a talent you can use, maybe get ye a missus or something.” 

Henry chuckles, and reaches for his drink. “M’not really interested in getting hitched John. But glad ye think so.” John pats him on the thigh before standing.

“It’s a good thing.” John jokes before walking back to the back room.

“Hey don’t tell Tommy or Arthur about that eh? I never told them I could back in France.” He calls out towards John’s back. John shoots a grin over his shoulder and smiles, before he shakes his head.

 

* * *

 

**River Somme,**

**France 1916.**

 

Henry remembers the first time someone dies while he’s got his hands on their wounds. He was just at Somme for less than a month. The boy who dies, because Richard is still a boy, barely seven years Henry’s junior, is someone who followed Henry out from London. Their families were friends. Henry can remember when Richard was introduced to him and his cousin Sebastian at a young age. While Henry holds one hand firmly over Richard’s bleeding stomach wound which he can barely cover, the idea that it could have been Sebastian flits through his mind.

Richard gasps out blood, words stuck in his throat. As hard as Henry tries, he can’t stop the bleeding, not with Jeremiah falling to his side to help him try to stabilize Richard. Richard scrambles weakly onto his dirty sleeve, smearing blood on his white shirt. Henry mutters to him, nonsensical as he presses his hand harder on Richard’s would like it’ll stop the blood flow. Nevermind that the wound is about as long as his hand is from palm to fingertip. 

Richard’s hand grows weaker on his sleeve. Henry grows more frantic. Richard’s last breath is blood-filled. Henry slumps against Richard’s body with tears trailing down his cheek. The enemy is held off, long enough for Henry to write a letter to Richard’s newly-wed wife. To Richard’s parents.

While his hands are still bloodstained, the blood is dry, and leaves no smears on the paper he folds and puts into the envelop to give to the officer collecting the mail for the next opportunity to send out.

Later that night, when camp is all but restless. Henry slips out into the quiet night air with Richard’s blood still on his hands. His hands are still red, the firelight only exaggerates how he looks. Henry has bags under his eyes, as he slumps against a tree on the perimeter of camp and cries with his head between his legs and his arms folded over the back of his head.

Henry’s sleep against the tree is disturbed, with the sight of Richard gasping blood and the pleading expression in Richard’s eyes for Henry to save him so prominent everytime he closes his eyes. He’s learned to deal with the dead, but when it’s come to people he couldn’t save. Their ghosts still linger in Henry’s dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

**Small Heath,**

**Birmingham, 1919.**

 

Henry stops by the Shelby house in the evening to look for Arthur. His best friend has been nowhere for most of the day and he’s not seen Arthur in the factory or the pub or anywhere else. He knocks on the doors tentatively, waiting with his palms sweating nervously. Polly’s tone and expression is gruff when she opens the door. When she sees Henry, she pauses and her face softens. .

“He’s not here.” She shakes her head. 

“You know where he is?” Henry feels his bottom lip twitch and tug into a frown.

“Think he went to go box.” She answers him and turns to close the door.

“If he comes back and I’m not with him. Will ye let me know?” He mutters, reaching out to grasp at her wrist. 

She nods, and closes the door in his face. 

Henry goes to the boxing ring with his heart pounding in his chest, scared, worried. He pushes through the doors with Arthur’s name falling from his lips, loud and worried. Arthur is crumpled onto the floor, gasping for air with a skipping rope tied to a noose around his neck. Panic siezes his throat before he rushes to Arthur’s side and grips onto him to flip him onto his back.

“Arthur fucking Shelby what do you think you’re doing.” Henry hisses, baring his teeth as Arthur gasps. His hands fumble on Arthur’s coat and tugs it aside, searching for injuries instinctively. He tugs on Arthur’s vest and collar and pulls them aside to stare at the red markings that are already starting to form around his throat up to his neck past his ear/

“Hen?” Arthur blinks a tear from his eye. He’s red-faced and breathless, staring up at Henry like he’s dreaming. 

“Arthur. What’re you doing love.” Henry mutters and brushes his hand on Arthur’s throat over the print of the rope. Arthur continues to gasp, wordlessly clutching at the fabric of Henry’s coat. Henry pulls Arthur over towards a pole, propping him up to smooth a hand through Arthur’s hair.

“Christ on a stick Arthur it’s like yer trying to kill me.” He mutters. He can smell the mixture of rum and whiskey and whatnot on Arthur’s breath. His heart breaks a little while he searches Arthur’s chest, for wounds, for something. He thumbs over Arthur’s stubble and blinks away a tear, all the tears that fill his eyes and he pushes away. 

“You’re gonna be just fine Artie, yea, you’ll be just good love.” Henry mumbles, shoving his hand under Arthur’s armpit and lifting him. He stumbles, when Arthur’s weight drags him down. He rearranges his grip and pulls Arthur with him. Arthur’s feet drag on the gravel while he storms through the streets. It’s dark out, with the lights and the glow of the stars above him. Arthur is mumbling something in a pour of drunken slurs and tears. He reaches the Shelby home, rattling with fear as he pounds on the door. He knocks, over and over again until Polly is yanking open the door with curses on her lips. Polly freezes when she takes note of how shaky he is.

“Polly, Polly I have him, I have Arthur” Henry gasps out. “Is Tommy… Is he here?” 

Polly shakes her head while pulling the door wide open so that they can both stumble through. He pulls Arthur over to the lounge and heaves him onto the cushions, before he drops to his knees and examines Arthur in the light. 

“A torch Polly? Do you have one?” He says without lifting his head as he peels Arthur’s collar away from his throat to look at the rope marks more clearly. Henry sits back on his calves, watching Arthur as his best friend, the man he loves, try to wave him off and pretend like he’s fine.

“Arthur stop  _ fucking _ moving!” Henry shouts. It does what it intends, Arthur freezes on the lounge and honest to god  _ whimpers _ . Henry softens, dropping his hands to Arthurs and taking them in his, smoothing his thumbs over the backs of Arthur’s hands as Arthur begins to shake. “M’sorry love, sorry for yelling.” Henry murmurs, reaching up to thumb at the tears streaming from Arthur’s eyes. 

“What’re you doin here?” Arthur forces the words out, averting his eyes. Henry frowns, sitting back on his calves, one hand still holding onto Arthurs. 

“Came to find you didn’t I?” Henry huffs fondly, before he rubs at his own eyes with the back of his free hand. “Ain’t gonna let you go out the wrong way love, you’re too good for that.” 

Polly clears her throat from the doorway. When Henry looks up, he sees a torch in her hand. She holds it out to him when he stands, her eyes darting between him and Arthur. He steps towards her and reaches for the torch. She pulls it back, crooking her finger for him to step closer.

“You treat ‘im right or I’ll cut your eyes out.” She threatens quietly, only for his ears to hear.

“I’d never willingly hurt him.” Henry promises, darting his eyes over to Arthur, who’s propped his head in his hands, still sobbing quietly. She nods, accepting his admission before she hands him the torch. He flicks the switch. THe light is dim, but it’ll serve his purpose as he kneels in front of Arthur and asks him softly to lift his head.

“I need to check if you’ve got a concussion love.” He explains when Arthur shakes his head.

“Let the boy look after you.” Polly calls from the kitchen, like she can read Arthur’s mind. Arthur raises his head, surprised, but fear lingers in the downturn of his mouth.

“Alright.” Arthur croaks and lifts his head properly. 

“Alright.” Henry repeats softly and lifts the dim torch. He shines it into Arthur’s eyes one by one, and then asks Arthur to follow his fingers before he runs his fingers over Arthur’s head checking for bumps. “Are you hurt anywhere else doll?” 

“Just me neck.” Arthur rasps. He brushes his fingers over his own neck and trembles.

“I’ve looked at them. They’ll fade in a dew days. I can get an ointmen-” Arthur cuts him off with a quick kiss, planted directly onto his lips. It lasts for a second, before Arthur pulls away and takes one of Henry’s hands in his.

“Thank you.” Arthur pulls him close, until they’re an inch away from each other. “I need you Hen.” He whispers. Arthur lowers his head, until his forehead is on Henry’s shoulder. Henry blinks back another round of tears, before he throws his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and cries into Arthur’s hair.  
  


* * *

 

“You know he can sing don’t you?” Tommy drawls as he sits down. Henry left when the sun came up, after spending the night soothing away each other’s tears and it was his fault. Arthur lifts his head from his glass, tilting his head curiously at his little brother. There's still the faint smell of an ointment that Henry had snagged from Polly from his throat. He can smell it lingering on his collar. The fact  that Henry isn't here now is... terrifying. . “Henry.” Tommy clarifies when he raises an eyebrow. “John said he was singing with Grace in the Garrison Friday morning. Some Irish songs they both knew the words to.” 

“Horseshit. Hen can’t sing. He said so in Gallipoli.” Arthur lifts his glass to his lips and takes a sip, staring at his little brother.

“John Boy also said that he wasn’t supposed to tell me or you that Henry could sing, but it slipped out anyway.” Tommy gestures with his glass. “Any reason why he wouldn’t want you to know Arthur?” 

“You’re fuckin’ with me Tommy, Hen can’t sing for shit.” Arthur points with his glass, staring down at Tommy with dark eyes. Tommy insinuates things from behind his eyes. 

“I’m sure he’d sing for you if you asked him. He’s smitten with you.” 

“Tommy.” Arthur warns, reaching over for the whiskey bottle to pour another round into the glass.

“He is. Asks all about what’s going on so he can prepare to take care of you. Best thing that’s ever happened to you Arthur.” Tommy drawls, mirth lingers in his voice before he takes a sip from his drink.

“Shut up Tommy.” Arthur rumbles, snatching up his glass to drink the whiskey he poured in one go.

“He loves you a lot you know. Adores everything about you. I’ve heard him wax poetry about your smile before while he was drunk.” 

“Just fucking shut it Tommy! I’m not a fucking queer and it’s nothing serious.” Arthur snaps, feeling sick to his stomach. He lunges forward for the bottle of whiskey but misses when Polly yanks it out of his reach with a rough smack to the side of his head.

“Horsehit.” Polly spits in a perfect mimic of his tone, standing over him with the bottle of whiskey in her hands. “Are you trying to convince Tommy that you’re not as smitten with Henry as he is with you? Because not even a two year old would believe that.” Polly places the whiskey bottle on the mantle and crosses her arms over her chest and frowns.

“Don’t tell me you’re using the poor boy.” Arthur’s stomach clenches and he ducks his head down and shakes it. He’s not using Henry. Henry is wonderful. He’s lovely, kind, sweet, stubborn and hardheaded where it counts. Henry’s blue eyes are pretty and expressive and  _ honest. _ His hands are always careful and gentle, firm when they need to be. Arthur likes how Henry holds his hands, gentle and soothing when they sit together, or pull each other up the stairs towards their beds. Arthur likes Henry’s voice when he’s whispering, or mumbling, Henry’s voice when he moans breathlessly and makes choked gasps. He blanches, lifting his head back up to stare at Pol. 

“-don’t tell me you’ve been making him feel thrown away and used, like all those ladies you’ve been sleeping with before he rocked up here.”  Polly continues. He hadn’t even realized he wasn’t listening to her as she was speaking. He clenches his fists and frowns. He squeezes his eyes Henry’s face flashes through his mind, tear-streaked and terrified, heart-broken.  _ Fuck—he’s so fucking stupid. _

“But… I’m n-not a fag. I’m  _ not _ .” Arthur mutters helplessly, his father’s words still rattle in his mind.

“Do you think we fucking care about any of that?” Polly shouts at him, whacking her purse against his shoulder. It hurts more than it looks. He yelps. “Do you think John gives a shit, or Tommy or god forbid Ada or I give a shit whether you like a bit of cock? Henry’s been good for you!” Polly hits him again, this time harder with her hand against the side of his head. “He’s been keeping you out of your head, been helping you!” 

“You smile more. Laugh more like you mean it. It’s genuine.” John’s voice comes from the doorway, soft and sincere. “Haven’t seen you like that in a while Arthur.” John steps into the room and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder softly. His little brothers give him fond looks, as Pol continues to list the ways Henry’s helped him.

“You best give that fucking boy a flowers and some chocolates when you go apologize to him for scaring his wits out of him.” Polly threatens. 

Arthur nods, half-frantic as he already begins to plot how he’s going to apologize to Henry for being an idiot the night before. He stands instinctively and goes for his coat. Tommy throws him some bills from the table and the car keys. He snatches them up, muttering some thanks under his breath as he rushes around, grabbing his hat and counting the money before he beelines for the door.

“And tell him you love him!” Polly yells as he reaches the door.

“I will!” He shouts back before he shoves the door open.

 

* * *

 

Henry been staring at his bottle of rum for the past three hours. Sure he was staring at his gun before that, curious, thoughtless, but now it’s the rum because the rum is safer and tastes a lot better than gunpowder and metal. The sun rose, Arthur panicked when Henry had muttered an “I love you so much” that he thought was too soft for Arthur to hear, and Arthur shoved him out of the Shelby house, stone cold and silent, but shaking. The look in Arthur’s eyes had him shaking, fear, confusion, anger, all of it, Henry didn’t know if it was directed at him or if Arthur was directing it at himself. Arthur’s tie is on his bed, left over from the last time he’d stayed over. 

His rum is starting to look a lot more tempting now that he hasn’t sleep, now that nightmares are crawling in the corners of his vision. He reaches forward for the rum and takes a swig straight from the bottle, and immediately regrets it. It burns, normally he’d love some rum, but now with the foul taste of sleep and tiredness in his mouth it’s disgusting.

Nightmares or not, his bed looks too inviting to deny. Shock is settling into him, he knows it. Shock from seeing Arthur gasping on the floor of the rings. Shock from Arthur screaming at him. Fear is what gripped onto him tightest, but it slipped away when he trekked all the way to his flat, he couldn’t even call it home.

He’s too tired to move from his chair, exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally. He spreads his arms on the flat surface of the table before he folds them on top of each other and presses his face between the gap. He drifts slowly for a few moments. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to Arthur shaking him. For a moment he thinks that he’s dreaming, because Arthur wouldn’t be in his flat, his next thought is that someone’s actually broken in and he’s a fucking idiot because he left his gun on the table and it’s loaded and now he’s going to die defenceless. But then Arthur stops shaking him when he sees his eyes open and pulls him into a hug instead. Arthur squeezes him tightly, his hands fisted into the fabric of his shirt. Over Arthur’s shoulder, he sees flowers in a mess on the floor, spilling out of the paper they were wrapped in.

“Henry!” Arthur gasps, fisting his hands tightly into the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. “Fuck, doll what’re you doin?”

“Huh?” He gives a bewildered grunt, still half asleep before he tries to pull away from Arthur’s frantic hands pressing to his chest, like Arthur is searching for a wound. “Been… sleepin Arthur.” He yawns mid reply.

“The fuck’s your gun out? And the rum, and it’s the middle of the day!” Arthur shouts, gripping onto his shoulders when he pulls back to look Henry in the eye.

“D-din’t go to bed until… s-seven or eight.” Henry stammers, still trying to orient himself. His eyes dart to the mess of purple and green on the floor, the flowers abandoned. “Did ye get me flowers Art?” 

“I thought you were fucking dead.” Arthur breathes out before tugging him back into a tight hug. “I saw the gun and you on the table and I-I...” Arthur trails off, breath puffing against Henry's ear. A wet droplet drips onto the shell of his ear and slides down the curve of it. Henry freezes, before wrapping his arms carefully around Arthur, pulling him down until Arthur is straddling his thighs. Arthur goes willingly, and when he pulls away, Henry’s heart aches.

Arthur looks heartbroken. His eyes are wide and filled with emotion as he searches Henry’s face. Arthur reaches up to cup his cheek, Arthur’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone slowly before he leans in to kiss Henry. “Don’t scare me like that.” Arthur mumbles between the kiss. "Please Henry I love you. I adore you. You..." Arthur hesitates. "You're my everything, I need you." 

Henry swallows the lump in his throat, staring up at Arthur while he's dazed. "Arthur?" 

"I'm in love with you." 

Arthur kisses him like it's the only thing that's left to do in the world. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Tommy says you can sing.” Henry groans, hiding his face into Arthur’s bare chest, pressing his forehead against the tattoo on his pec. “Says Johnny told him. How come I’m the last to hear about this.”

Henry shakes his head against Arthur’s chest. “No, not true, I can’t sing for shit.” 

“Horseshit.” Arthur calls with a laugh, slipping a hand under Henry’s forehead to lift his head and meet Henry’s eyes. 

“Alright.” Henry rolls his eyes and shifts, shuffling so his chest isn’t twisted awkwardly against Arthur’s body. “What language? English, Gaelic? French, I can do.” 

“French.” Arthur rasps, rubbing a hand up and down the length of Henry’s back, smoothing his fingers over the dimples of Henry’s lower back and tracing the knobs of each vertebra in his spine. “Didn’t know you could speak it.” 

“Okay. Don’t laugh alright?” Henry mutters shyly before he takes a deep breath.

“ _ Je vais t’aimer comme on ne t’a jamais aimée. . _ ” He starts slowly in a low whisper, hiding his face from Arthur’s. “ _ Je vais t’aimer plus loin que tes rêves ont imaginé. Je vais t’aimer comme personne n’a osé t’aimer.”  _ He kisses Arthur’s chest softly between the words, faltering in his pronunciation.  _ “Je vais t’aimer comme j’aurai tellement aimé être aimé. Je vais t’aimer. Je vais t’aimer. _ ” Henry trails off, cheeks flushed red as he buries his face back into Arthur’s chest, kissing the length of his collarbone to distract from the red in his cheeks.

“You’re so shy now.” Arthur laughs, kissing his temple. “Tell me what it means, please?” 

“It means…” Henry tilts his head to the side to look at Arthur.  _ Je vias t’aimer _ means I will love you.” He smiles and sits up to kiss Arthur slowly, pressing their lips together. “It means, I will love you like you’ve never been loved before, I will love you beyond what your dreams have imagined, I will love you like no one has ever dared to love you, I will love you like I would so much have loved to be loved.” Henry smiles shyly, rubbing a thumb over the jut of Arthur’s hip. 

“It’s just a French love song.” He shrugs.

“It’s..” Arthur hesitates before pushing himself to sit up properly. He shifts, rolling them both over so that he can smile down at Henry with wet eyes, before he leans in to kiss him. The kiss is harder, with a hint of desperation and longing as Arthur traces the seam of his lips with his tongues. “It’s more than just a love song.” He rasps between kisses. “I’ll love you Hen, as much as you love me.” 


End file.
